


Rire wanted to play house

by Magpiedance



Series: Endings - (BTD) [3]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Forced domesticity, Mind Control, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 14:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17305922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpiedance/pseuds/Magpiedance
Summary: Rire's not done playing mind games with you.





	Rire wanted to play house

**Author's Note:**

> Probably best read as a continuation of the 'To what life?' ending.

There's a strange man in your bed.

Everything else is as it should be. The walls. The furniture. You look out of the window. The view is exactly right. All of it is totally correct and somehow none of it feels entirely right. And there's this man.

In your bed.

You don't feel at all worried. You wonder if you should be. You give his shoulder a  gentle shove and he opens his eyes.

His eyes.

You don't notice anything particular about them.

He smiles at you. You feel awkward.

“Who are you?” You ask, though you feel stupid for doing so.

He trails a single finger lazily down your arm, and takes his time considering his answer.

“I'm your husband,” he says at last, “don't you remember?”

And suddenly you do.

There's a photo of your wedding day on the bedside table, how did you miss that?

“Oh, shit,” you say, as it all comes flooding back. “I'm... sorry...”

He sits up and kisses your shoulder.

“It's okay, love,” he says. “You just had one of your bad dreams. You know how that makes you muddled in the morning.”

You do. It's a problem.

“Yeah,” you say, “yeah, that must be it.”

You get up, as you always do. You take your time in the bathroom, your husband on your heels like a shadow. You assume he too needs to use the facilities but he just watches from the doorway as you step into the shower.

You laugh nervously.

“See something you like?” You ask, as a joke.

He sighs appreciatively.

“I certainly do,” he replies, but doesn't join you.

Has he always been this laconic?

You hurry downstairs to make breakfast in only a thin button down shirt and a pair of boxer-shorts, your husband still a step behind you fully dressed. You try to ignore how uncomfortable having him constantly in your intimate space makes you.

“Don't you have to get ready too?” You try asking him as you put a frying pan on the hob. “You're going to be late for...”

You hesitate.

For...?

“Don't worry about it, sweetheart,” he replies, smoothly, “We both have the day off today. We don't have anywhere else to be.”

That's right. It's your day off.

He gets in closer, laying one hand on your shoulder as he whispers in the opposite ear.

“We can do whatever we want today. Just you and me.”

Something smooth and wet slides under your shirt and begins snaking its way up your back. You don't pay it any mind.

“How do you want your eggs this morning?” You ask him.

“Mm, surprise me,” he suggests, pushing his nose into your hair.

You break two eggs into the pan while something coils around your neck.

“Do you want a toasted bagel?” You ask.

The loop around your neck tightens.

“Definitely,” he says.

It becomes increasingly difficult to stay steady on your feet as something else slithers up between your legs and pushes inside of you.

“What's wrong, darling?” He asks, as he leans past you and drops two slices of bacon into the pan.

You can't answer him with your breath stolen away. His arm around your waist stops you from collapsing to the floor.

The grip on your neck loosens just long enough for you to take one large gasping breath before clenching shut again and tipping your forward onto your hands. You hear your husband unbuckling his belt behind you.

“You know, honey, I think I'd like a glass of milk,” he says mildly, as though he weren't palming his dick in one hand and fisting the other into your hair.

He uses his grip on you to manhandle you over to the fridge, your bare feet sliding uselessly over the linoleum.

“Well?” He asks, his voice dropping to a decidedly more menacing tone.

You drag your wits together as best you can and with hands shaking you retrieve the milk from the fridge. You clutch it to your chest for fear of dropping it on the floor as unstable as you are with an unknown _something_ wriggling around inside of you, pressing hard where you are most sensitive.

The snare around your neck relents just enough to allow you to suck in laboured breaths, so you take a moment to steady yourself as the room spins around you.

Unsatisfied with this your husband lets go of his vice grip on your hair and plants an open-palmed smack on your behind.

“Chop-chop,” he says. “We don't have all day.”

Then he laughs darkly at his own joke.

You lurch over to the counter and plunk the milk down on its surface.

He helpfully pulls a glass out of the cupboard and places it by your hand.

“I'll say 'when',” he offers, cheerfully.

Through sheer force of will you still your trembling enough to remove the milk cap, but as you raise the bottle over the glass your husband slips your shorts down and his cock in alongside the _thing_ already fucking you.

You moan like a whore and the milk spills everywhere.

“Ahh, what a shame,” he says.

The grip on your neck is suddenly released and you choke down air like you're dying. You are gripped instead around the waist and ankles and your legs are abruptly pulled wider so your husband can fuck you harder over the kitchen counter.

You fall onto your elbows. Milk drenches your shirtsleeves.

He puts one hand on your hip and the other grips the back of your neck.

“Louder,” he commands.

You really let loose. You whine. You squeal. You swear like a trooper.

All of it spurs him harder, pushes him deeper. Every part of him seems to be throbbing, expanding. Just when you think you are about to lose your mind he surges forward, his hand landing heavily on the counter next to yours, and, shuddering, spills his load inside of you.

After a moment of breathing heavily into the back of your head he pulls away and you are unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

He gracefully takes his place at the head of the dinner table, his meal somehow plated and his clothes undisturbed. He takes no notice of your struggle to find your feet and turns his attention to the newspaper as he sips from a cup of tea. You didn't even make any tea.

When you finally take your seat, feeling thoroughly defiled and more than a little disturbed, he sets the paper aside and steeples his fingers together.

“Oh my sweet dove,” he says, fondly. “It really has been too long, hasn't it? Let's you and I have some fun today.”

You nod vaguely, staring into the middle distance.

Then you eat your breakfast. It's pretty good.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tentacles ~♡


End file.
